


gravedigger

by Zara Hemla (zarahemla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahemla/pseuds/Zara%20Hemla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where's a boy with bad intentions / gonna settle down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	gravedigger

They are so far from San Francisco that Sam has to catch the bus on Thursday to reach the city by Sunday. Dean walks him to the bus stop and tells him, "Be good. And bang some sorority girls -- gotta keep the Winchester family reputation intact."

Sam smiles at him patiently and says, "The only banging I'm gonna do is when my textbooks hit the desk."

Dean leans forward then and gives him the wickedest smile he can manage. "Then don't be too too noisy," he says, and they both crack up, smacking each other on the back. And that's how they say goodbye.

As the bus pulls away, Dean sees a white smear in the back window -- Sam's face, Sam's hand waving. He puts his own hand up in farewell and when the bus is gone he hits a convenient signpost so hard it splits his knuckles.

* * *

A dirty neon sign spits on the outside of a dirty window -- BAR. POOL. BAR. POOL. Bar and pool, the same here as any other town. Eight or nine cars parked outside, and a lot full of gravel and broken glass. Inside, Hank Williams Sr. on a scratchy juke and six pretzels in a bowl on the bar that look like they haven't been touched in years.

At first no one might notice the boy sitting at the bar with a beer glass in front of him. At least, he looks like a boy because no one is close enough to see the fine stubble on his face or the start of lines around his mouth.

The boy has on a horribly faded t-shirt -- once red -- and horribly faded ripped blue jeans. He has finished two cigarettes and is talking to himself softly. As he gulps down a beer, anyone looking might notice the gauze pad taped onto his left hand.

"'Ja get in an accident, pretty boy?" asks the man next to him. "Scrape your hand on the keyboard when you was typin in all that ee-rotic lit'riture?" He is unshaven, burly, and wearing a checkered shirt. Next to him, another thinner man snorts and buries his head in his arms.

"Fuck you, gravedigger," says Dean equably without turning his head. The burly man's mouth drops open.

"Well, boy, I got to ask how you know that."

Dean bares his teeth in the man's direction. "I know a gravedigger," he says, "when I see one."

As the man drops his eyes, muttering something predictable about queers, Dean throws a ten onto the bar and gets up, stalking toward the pool table and beginning to play a marginally competent game. An observer not watching the sweet line of his jeans as he bends for a shot might notice that he holds the cue wrong. Might even, as a couple of the pool players do, drift over to where he is cursing himself quietly as he knocks the ball off-center.

A man in a black AC/DC t-shirt offers him advice, laughing, and Dean glowers up at him. "You think you can play better than me," he says. Pauses. Hitches his hip up onto the rim of the table. "You think ... you can play better than me, is that what you think?"

AC/DC smiles a bit. "Yeah," he says, and his friends elbow each other. Dean scowls at them too: two stringy guys and a girl with red hair and a semi-decent rack. Dean picks her to mock-pout at, and her eyes widen.

"You too? You think he's better than me?"

She opens her mouth but AC/DC cuts her off, "Hey man, that's my girl. Don't go talking to my girl."

"Your girrrrl," Dean says, and smiles at her with open appreciation. "Congratulations." She's watching him under a blush -- an observer might say, she's helpless not to -- and AC/DC lunges for a cue.

"All right, cityboy," he says, "But don't cry afterward, cos I'm gonna fuck you."

"And he called *me* a queer," says Dean to himself. He hops off the table and gestures with the cue. "Rackem. Oh ... and we're playing for money, right? Isn't that what you pool hall boys do?" He fishes a wad of money out of his pants pocket and hands it to the girl, then tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. It is soft under his fingers. "Can you count this for me, honey?"

She flips through the bills and then motions AC/DC over, whispering urgently in his ear. AC/DC shushes her and then looks around at him. "Two hundred, huh? Are you fuckin crazy?"

"Yeah," says Dean. "Certifiable."

"Two hundred," says the girl in a soft voice. "He's sharkin you."

"You got it, honey," Dean replies, and smiles a little at her. "I can take him, and I can take you, and I can take anything I want out of this dirt town." It's a pretty speech, punctuated by an "oof" as he backs up into the table, waving the pool cue around as if he's conducting a choir. "So c'mon, quit fuckin around. Let me take your money from you."

AC/DC looks at him again, looks at the girl and his friends. Then he shrugs and racks up the balls. He is obviously familiar with the table and he acquits himself nicely, making a corner pocket shot that even makes Dean's eyebrows lift a little. He is six balls up before he hops a ball a little too far left and the 9 ball misses.

Dean smiles, wipes chalk dust onto his jeans, and asks the girl if she has a brother.

"Yeah," she says, ignoring a scowl from AC/DC as he slumps against the wall.

"You guys get along?"

She smiles. "Yeah."

"Good," he says, and turns to the felt. It is quick and painless, and over in a few minutes. Both Winchester brothers think that Sam is the smarter one, but he could not have computed angles so capably or quickly, which is why one of them plays the ingenue and the other circles slowly, waiting for blood to hit the water.

"You sharked me," says AC/DC as Dean slides the eight ball home. "You fuckin sharked me, a fuckin queerass loser like you."

"I told you take my money," says Dean. "You couldn't do it, so shut the fuck up." The girl holds out his cash, and he takes it back, then he waits. AC/DC eyes him.

"You ain't very tall, are you."

Dean's eyebrows go up again. "My brother's the tall one."

AC/DC looks at him once more, then digs some bills out of his pocket. "A hundred fifty, that's all I got. Sarah."

The girl comes forward, blank-faced, and takes the rest out of her purse. Dean takes it, takes it all, and thanks them. Then he returns to the bar, and watches them in the mirror as well as he can.

Later, as a boy stumbles toward the mens' room, an observer might have seen a red-haired girl bump up against him. It's hard to see, but she might have whispered something in his ear. He smiles at her, holds up a hand. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry."

Dean goes into the mens' room and comes out wiping the back of his hand with his mouth. He collects his jean jacket from his seat and walks, sort of, toward the door.

Outside, the air has hit the low forties and a stiff wind blows. Dean stops and tries to light a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame, and succeeds in getting a puff off before three shadows materialize out of the black.

"Oh, boys," he says. "There are two things I'm better at than pool, but I'm only gonna do one of 'em to you." And as they rush toward him, he goes to meet them, burning all his loss out in the perverse joy of getting his head pounded against tarmac.

* * *

"Hey, bro."

"Hey. Did you get to your new place okay?"

"Sure did. And got my books and tomorrow I start -- I can't believe it."

"Hey ... you're gonna do great. You're a Winchester. You'll show 'em how it's done."

"Dean, you sound funny. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, man, I'm good. Prolly just the connection."

"All right. Talk to you soon, ok?"

"All right, Sam. Soon."

\--end--

**Author's Note:**

> summary phrase is an old 97s song: "streets of where I'm from."


End file.
